


phantom limb syndrome

by ciders



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eddie misses his boyfriend, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Richie makes a sex joke with poor timing, only warning is for language really, they can see each other's thoughts on their skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciders/pseuds/ciders
Summary: Because sometimes, Eddie swears he can feel Richie there in times when he isn’t. When he rolls over at night and grabs for his boyfriend only to clutch at a cotton slip of his sheets. When he turns to mention something in the isles of the grocery store only to find himself facing produce. Richie is there when he isn’t. How bad Eddie misses him only adds to it.





	phantom limb syndrome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily/gifts).



> inspired by the song 'home' by edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros. wrote this as a birthday gift for a friend of mine. happy birthday el! sorry there's some angst, happiness cannot exist without it. they get their happy ending.
> 
> enjoy!

Eddie really doesn’t _hate_ anything about having a soulmate, even if it is an inconvenience. More specifically, Eddie doesn’t think he hates anything _about_ his soulmate.

 

Nobody believes him when he says this, not even Richie himself. It’s true, though. Richie could check for himself against the flush of his freckled, pale skin: not a thought crosses Eddie’s mind that might even insinuate that there is something to hate about his boyfriend. If there is, Eddie can’t find it for himself. He finds Richie annoying, of course, but all lovers find each other irritating at times, don’t they?

 

If he could list the things he hates about Richie, it would be things he _did._ Eddie finds Richie’s habits annoying. He drinks orange juice out of the carton like glasses aren’t an option whenever he comes home on holidays, even though Eddie always keeps his sink from piling with dishes. He hogs the bed sometimes, and it didn’t feel all too nice catching one of Richie’s bony knees to his hip when he’s in the middle of a dream. He makes jokes that aren’t funny at inappropriate times, and funny jokes at times when Eddie shouldn’t be laughing. He wakes up in the middle of the night, terrified at times, and Eddie, to his own internal self-disgust, finds that annoying at times, too.

 

There are annoyances that Richie commits that Eddie doesn’t like. He doesn’t hate anything about him, though. Not really.

 

Except maybe the fact that Richie is just over 1000 miles away from him most of the time. 

 

When Richie is gone, Eddie takes comfort in those annoyances.

 

Eddie remembers the day Richie told him that he was going to be going away for school. He remembers it well, because the sting in his chest still rings true every single time the memory passes his mind. He usually gets a phone call not moments after from the madman himself, asking Eddie what he’s doing to be thinking of such a thing. Eddie never really has an explanation, though. Not a good one.

 

“I was just laying in the dark and,” Eddie had said once, the last year Richie was to be away at school, shaking his head as he leaned into the wall of his dorm and pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “I just… I was just thinking.”

 

“I know you were,” Richie says, the statement well passed being in any way invasive, “but that’s depressing, Eds.”

 

Eddie twisted then, his eyes finding his windowsill lit up in the quickly dimming daylight outside.

 

“It’s _depressing_ not having you here.” Then, quietly, “I miss having you here.”

 

Eddie looked down into his free arm as he spoke, watching the inky, tattoo-like letters drift into stretching beams and strands of blackness. They formed only four words, twisting and bending into Richie’s own handwriting. That made it hurt more.

 

**_YOU HAVE NO IDEA_ **

 

Eddie’s learned to deal with this, as hard as it has been, by method of his own skin. He knows how unhealthy it is to be watching all the time, but he truly can’t help it. When he can’t call Richie, when he can’t get a chance to speak to him until he’s trotted his way back to his dorm at night, Eddie watches instead; tracing the words running through the boy’s brain as they appear against the sun-kissed flush of his forearm.

 

In the past, he’d taken to wearing long sleeve knits and cardigans when going out in public, never knowing what might cross Richie’s mind, especially on morning when he hasn’t taken his medication. Eventually, though, he always finds it to be too much, drawing up his sleeves to his elbows and peering down into the fleshy part of his arms to see what’s going on with his runaway boy.

 

A few popular thoughts that Eddie always seems to come across are:

 

**_EDDIE_ **

****

**_I WISH I COULD READ MINDS_ **

**_I MEAN I KINDA CAN_ **

****

**_THAT JUST DOESN’T ADD UP_ **

****

**_NAP TIME NAP TIME NAP TIME_ **

****

**_FUCKING. STUPID STUPID_ **

****

**YEAH I THINK THAT’S THE RIGHT CHANGE**

****

**_EDDIE SPAGHETTI_ **

****

**_WHAT THE FUCK RHYMES WITH ORANGE_ **

****

**_I MISS HIM SO BADLY_ **

****

The last one, to no shock, is popular. The first time Eddie sees it, he is sitting in the school’s library building, and he can feel his heart leap inside of his chest. Surrounded by racks upon racks of books, Eddie makes an active decision, motivating a planned thought, and he waits. Patiently, not knowing. Staring down into his arm as the letters begin to blur again.

 

 _I miss you too,_ Eddie thinks, forcing it like the strength behind it has anything to do with it’s delivery.

 

And he waits. And he waits. Seconds pass, and the cloudy mess on his arm is reflective of none other than Richie’s rapidly moving attention span. Eddie leans forward, his heart sinking back into the pit of his stomach as he thumbs his spot in the textbook he’s reading, before he notices the mark shifting into something concrete.

 

Glancing down into his forearm, Eddie is awash with a fiery blush.

 

**_HOME SOON, EDS. I PROMISE._ **

****

This quickly became their form of communication, when calls weren’t achievable. Eddie would sit in his lectures, drifting and dozing and sending thoughts back and forth like some sort of telepathic messaging system. The first time Bill caught him doing so, he’d been impressed by how innovative the two of them had become, but more surprised that they hadn’t caught onto that trick sooner.

 

He’d heard Bill complain plenty about his soulmates, talking about how having two people bickering with each other and yourself included over what kind of pizza toppings were best, and having that reflected on your skin for everyone to see, wasn’t all that cutesy as he’d thought it would be.

 

“The a-ah-amount of tuh-times I’ve had t-tuh-to look down and s-suh-see the w-word ‘olives’ o-on me is u-uh-unsettling,” Bill had commented, and that had made the both of them laugh. Mike and Stan were good guys. _The best guys_ , Eddie had thought once before, catching a teasing joke about Richie’s damaged ego from the boy himself as the thought had breached his mind.

 

 _Bill is lucky to have them_ , Eddie thought. _Even luckier to have both of them here with him._

 

The first day Bill notices one of Eddie and Richie’s little conversations, Eddie is particularly sad. Cradling his arm in his lap with his feet on the chair in front of him, Eddie hadn’t been able to peel his eyes off of his skin all class. It’s nearly the beginning of April, and it can be felt among the students. Particularly Eddie.

 

_I miss you._

**_I MISS YOU TOO, SPAGHETTI_ **

****

**_HOW MUCH?_ **

****

_Too much today. It feels… awful. I just want to go home._

 

**_JUST LEAVE, THAT’S WHAT I ALWAYS DO_ **

 

_Don’t tell me you left to go to school so_

_far away just to skip out, Rich. That_

_doesn’t help._

 

**_BABY ARE YOU ALRIGHT?_ **

 

“E-Eddie?” Bill had whispered, leaning to his right so that he wouldn’t have to speak near as loud as the short documentary their professor had put on played like a droning annoyance in the background.

 

“Hm?” Eddie mumbled, staring down into his arm for another moment before he glanced towards Bill.

 

Bill looked almost teary eyed. He’d never been known to be a crier, not even when they were kids. Out of all of them, Bill was probably the least likely to cry about something that touched him. The most likely? Well, Ben and Eddie fought hard with each other in the past over not wanting _that_ title. 

 

Eddie felt the need to ask Bill if he was going to cry, but he didn’t know if he wanted to. He chalked Bill’s dewy eyes up to the lighting in the room.

 

“Y-You really m-muh-miss him, d-don’t you?” Bill had asked, eyes searching Eddie’s face like he was hunting for an answer where words couldn’t be found.

 

 _Yeah, Bill,_ Eddie had thought absently, momentarily forgetting that Richie was in close contact with all of his internal feelings, _I could tell you being without him feels like dying. It does, but what good would that do?_

“Yes,” Eddie replied, hushed. “I do. All the time.”

 

“How l-l-long h-has it b-been since he’s b-been h-huh-home?”

 

This hurts. Badly. Eddie hadn’t let himself think about such a thing for weeks, and the last time, he had, well. He’d thrown himself into a mood that he didn’t quite get out of. Not even as he had sat there in class that day. The fact that his love was out of his reach hung over him like a storm cloud ready to burst.

 

Eddie mulled the words inside of his brain, but it doesn’t do anything to numb them.

 

“3 months,” Eddie said, quieter now, quieter than he needs to be.

 

The last time Richie had come home, it had been for Christmas. The snow had lingered, but he hadn’t.

 

“He’ll c-cuh-come back soon, E-Eddie.”

 

“You think so?” Eddie asked, hating that he felt the need to.

 

“I kn-knuh-know so.”

Leaning back slightly in his chair, Bill spared Eddie a melancholic smile before Eddie noticed the boy’s eyes darting down towards his arm. His expression shifted, ever so slightly, to one of intrigue, or maybe surprise. Eddie suddenly became very, _very_ self conscious. He hated how exposed he felt when people did that to him, how suddenly wide open and bare his presence seemed to become.

 

Almost instinctively, Eddie crossed his arms firmly over his chest, pushing his back further into his seat as he turned his attention towards the projection on the wall. He didn’t know what Richie might have caught from that conversation, but he wasn’t planning on hearing any more about it. Yet, he couldn’t help but sneak a peak down at his skin, barely illuminated under the dim ceiling lights. Words barely just formed lined the inside of his arm.

 

**_PLEASE BRING ME HOME TO HIM SOON_ **

****

Eddie walked home with a lightness in his chest that evening that had only grown worse when he’d gotten home to an empty room.

 

They talk this way in the evenings when things get to be a bit too much and crying on the telephone doesn’t strike either of them as a good idea. He thinks having a soulmate is an inconvenience, especially at times when Richie is thinking about bad jokes, vulgar complaints, or of course, things that shouldn’t really be revealed to strangers against the skin of your lover’s arms. _Those_ types of things. He loves it, though.

 

Even at times when it gets confusing.

 

There is a period of time, near the end of Richie’s last year, that he and Richie had started talking less. Not a staggering amount, but enough to make Eddie slightly nervous, enough to make his heart flutter even harder every time Richie’s thoughts swam about on his arm. One evening, towards the end of Eddie’s finals that year, Eddie doesn’t get to talk to Richie at all. He tries throughout the day to catch him thinking about him, maybe glancing at his arm 1000 miles away at the right moment, but it’s hard when you can’t see the person who’s attention you’re trying to grab. Especially when the person’s attention is like a ricocheting tennis ball in a rapidly spinning room.

 

Eddie tries calling Richie in the morning, but he gets his voicemail. Unusual, but not unheard of, and Eddie listens to it. Listens to that same stupid joke Richie makes in the recording every single time, and he smiles because he misses his boyfriend’s voice. He smiles, finds he’s about to start crying, and he hangs up before he can hear the system’s synonymous beep.

 

It is this same night, when Eddie is laying in bed late on that Friday evening mid April, tucked into his comforter on his side, barely watching Richie’s thoughts swim against his arm like fish in a koi pond through a sleepy haze, when he sees that strange, strange thought for the first time. Not one that he’s ever noticed before, and certainly not something he can really understand.

 

**_KEEP IT DOWN TOZIER_ **

****

**_2 ...?  207 ... UM ... 2 ?  2 WHAT ?_ **

****

  1. **_2… WAIT_**



****

**_EDDIE ?_ **

****

Had Eddie been resting peacefully before, just about to drift off into a much needed sleep, he’s wide awake now.

 

Keeping his eyes fixed to his right arm, Eddie uses his left to ease himself up onto his elbow, reaching out and flicking on his night stand lamp, gaze never leaving the words that fell like thick black paint against his arm. They had conversations like this, plenty of them to be exact, but none that started out right out of nowhere. _Something’s wrong,_ Eddie’s mind instantly echoed, a debilitating scar left on his psyche from years of growing up in the home that he did, living with the mother that he’d had. _Something’s wrong. Maybe he’s dying. Maybe he’s ill or he got into a wreck or he’s having a mental breakdown. Maybe he’s experiencing oncoming Alzheimer’s. Can Alzheimer’s happen to 22 year olds? Is that a thing? Onset Alzheimer’s?_

As Eddie glances down at his skin, now lit up underneath the yellowed bulb, he feels embarrassment rush over him like a splash of hot water.

 

**I HAVEN’T GOT ALZHEIMERS YOU LOON**

**HEY EDDIE EDDIE EDDIE**

**EDDIE DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DO HAVE THOUGH**

Eddie can’t fight the urge to smile, but the sickness in his gut does it for him.

****

_A deficiency in Vitamin D, yeah. I know, Rich._

_You’ve used that one before. Not the time._

Eddie feels his stomach twist, staring down into his arm as Richie’s thoughts turn into an inky sea once more. The chills that had rushed over him when he’d seen Richie’s sudden demand for him haven’t ceased. The feeling can’t quite be shaken off that easily.

 

And what was ‘2’?

 

Eddie watches the twisting form shift like swirls of watered down paint, forming itself into letters once more. He pushes himself up into a sit, stretching briefly.

 

**WHAT’S WRONG**

_Nothing’s wrong. Tired. What was that all about?_

**NOTHING. MATH STUFF**

Eddie wants to question further, but he finds no use.

**DID I WAKE YOU UP**

He wants to say yes. Some part of him, some part that is bitter over the fact that he hasn’t spoken to Richie all day, wants to say yes. He feels bad, of course, for wanting Richie to feel bad, and buries that feeling deep down inside of his stomach. Richie doesn’t deserve to feel bad for having a life. Not even if Eddie feels bad because Richie isn’t in his right now.

 

 _I wasn’t really asleep yet,_ Eddie thinks in return. _I was just laying down. I’ve got a couple things to do, but I was thinking I was gonna give you a call._ Eddie climbs off the bed, stepping across the short threshold of his room as he grabs a few stray t-shirts hanging off the edge of his laundry basket and drops them fully in. He feels glad, lighter now, knowing that he gets to talk to Richie today, even if it’s only through the canvas of his own body. Wrapping his fingers around the handles of his laundry basket, Eddie glances down at his arm, briefly, but what he sees makes him freeze on spot.

 

**NO DON’T**

He feels ill immediately, his stomach feeling as though it’s stretching and pulling in every which way in no good direction. Swallowing hard, Eddie’s pause leaves room for the words on his arm to practically flash into a different statement

 

**I MEAN DON’T RIGHT NOW**

**IT’S NOT**

**I’M JUST I’M REALLY BUSY RIGHT NOW**

**ESSAYS TO FINISH**

Eddie thinks of all the time’s he’s called Richie while writing essays. That stings. Richie’s thought is a stamp of approval on every single worry Eddie’s had.

 

_Did I do something wrong, Rich?_

**OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T EDS**

**I JUST CAN’T I JUST I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING**

Eddie doesn’t want to feel bitter, but he does, lord, he does. Fingers tightening around the rim of his basket, Eddie walks slowly towards his dresser, grabbing a couple quarters off the surface so he can pay for his chores. His throat stings, and his eyes burn with tears threatening to spill from them. He doesn’t want to be upset. He wants to be able to tell himself it’s nothing, because they’ve never had problems like the ones he so desperately wants to stop thinking about. But he can’t. From his room, Eddie can hear what sounds like his neighbour drunkenly stumbling down the hallway, tripping over someone’s garbage, likely. He hates the idea of having to make conversation when he’s like this. He hates it.

 

_Fine. I won’t._

**FUCKING SHIT**

**UH**

**DON’T BE MAD EDS PLEASE**

**I JUST CAN’T**

_I said it’s fine, didn’t I, Richie?_

_I have laundry to do anyways. I’ll talk to you later._

**EDDIE WAIT**

He doesn’t. He can’t bare to, really. Not right now. The combination of missing Richie as much as he does mixed with the fact that Richie can’t ( _doesn’t want to?)_ talk to him makes him feel ready to vomit. It hurts, more than a regular hurt. It situates itself deep down into the crooks of his elbows, behind his knees, ears and eyelids. It hides itself all over his body, making his limbs want to give out and give up. He feels sick thinking about Richie for the first time, but only the idea of Richie that he has in his head. Eddie steps towards the door, fumbling with his keys and sliding them into his back pocket. He tries to ignore the dizzy feeling inside of his head. He thinks himself angry with Richie, just a little bit, and that feels worse than almost anything. Even then, he finds he’s talking himself out of it.

 

Because Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t hate Richie Tozier. He loves him so badly with every ounce of his being that missing him feeling like missing a limb, missing half of your body, even. In a way, it _is_ like that. A piece of him is in Indiana, in the rain and the late winter sleet, and Eddie wants it back. Needs it back. Needs Richie like he needs the air he breathes. Needs it to stop hurting when he’s gone, even if it’s worth it when he isn’t.

 

As Eddie sets his laundry basket down and unlocks his door, bringing it open with a visibly irritated swing, his eyes fall upon the tiny plaque on his dormitory door.

 

It’s been there forever it seems, ever since Eddie had moved in and Eddie knows it’s been there much longer than he has. Where the black backing of it had been once polished and new, it’s now a matted shade of charcoal grey, sporting silver twisting numbers to identify his room, just like every other room in the hallway, from each other. He doesn’t notice it on a regular day, and he has no reason to of course. The only reason that it strikes him out of the blue about it today is because of the context of his evening. The context of what Eddie had assumed to be half-drunk ramblings from his boyfriend.

 

Eddie reads the sign and his heart stops, for sure. He reads the number, ‘ ** _207_** ’, the same number he’s read a million times, and he drops his change in the open doorway of his room with a multitude of clinks like the jingle of tiny bells.

 

Eddie steps out into the hallway, letting his door shut easily behind him, and as he stares down the hallway, he thinks about phantom limb syndrome, of all the things to think about.

 

He thinks about how Richie Tozier, his soulmate, his lover, his person, also doubles as his own phantom limb. Eddie had read about phantom limb syndrome in his first year of college, and he’d even heard the term before that. Who had mentioned it, maybe Stanley, likely Ben, he can’t remember. But he’s thinking about it now. Phantom Limb Syndrome. The ghost like feeling one might experience of a limb that is no longer present. Well, there hadn’t been a serious or traumatic accident to tear him away. No accidents, no purposeful surgeries. Richie is still Eddie’s and Eddie Richie’s. So why does it feel like this? Does it count?

 

Eddie thinks yes. Because sometimes, Eddie swears he can feel Richie there in times when he isn’t. When he rolls over at night and grabs for his boyfriend only to clutch at a cotton slip of his sheets. When he turns to mention something in the isles of the grocery store only to find himself facing produce. Richie is there when he isn’t. How bad he misses him only adds to it.

 

As Eddie stares down the hall, watching Richie crouch next to his gaudily flower printed suitcase and try to pile books back into a cardboard box a couple doors down, he wonders how patients must miss their limbs like Eddie misses Richie.

 

Missed him. He _missed_ him. He still misses him, but only because it hasn’t kicked in yet. Only because he’s taking a second too long to force himself into motion. When he does, he moves quicker.

 

“Richie,” Eddie exhales sharply, watching as the boy’s head snaps up from what he’s doing at the sound of Eddie’s door shutting and the book, what appears to be the cover of an old Tolstoy novel, tumbles back to the hall’s carpet.

 

Richie’s eyes are doe-like, quite literally looking like a deer in headlights, and he’s barely standing up from his previous crouch before Eddie’s body slams into his like a ton of bricks. Richie, as tall and thin as he is, doesn’t fall onto his ass, but he nearly does. Eddie’s arms are wrapped around the boy’s waist instantly, his head burying into Richie’s chest as the tears finally begin to flow, this time for the right reason. Richie’s hands find Eddie in return, quickly, a startled laugh of pure, unadulterated joy escaping his lips as his right hand finds the back of Eddie’s neck and his left wraps around Eddie’s hip. They sway, conjoined, to the beat of some unsung song. Every single touch of Richie’s skin, even through the barrier of his old t-shirt, feels absolutely electric, and when Eddie brings his forehead away from Richie’s chest after several seconds, he likes the way Richie seems to be thinking in sync with him.

 

 _It’s not because my arms must give it away_ , Eddie thinks briefly. It’s not because when Richie’s forearm turns upwards and his thumb grazes Eddie’s neck lovingly, Eddie can see the words **_‘I NEED TO KISS YOU’_** in his own type of handwriting plastered on the boy’s tattooed skin. He doesn’t mind, because Richie does, fingers working up to Eddie’s chin and tipping it up as he places a warm, welcome kiss on Eddie’s lips. It is much deserved, much needed, and Eddie melts into the boy’s chest, savouring every second of the moment because it still feels like a dream to him.

 

Richie kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him more but still not enough, never enough to make up for those months gone and when Richie slots an inch of space between their lips as a careless smile crosses his face, Eddie wants to tug him back in. Catching his breath, but not fully, both of Richie’s palms fall gently against Eddie’s flushed cheeks.

 

“Isn’t that my shirt?” he asks, the first words to leave his mouth since he’s seen his boyfriend, and Eddie is alive again with the sheer understanding that _yes, he is here, he is here he is mine he is here in my arms and I missed him so fucking badly I feel like I’m breathing again for the first time in months._

“I missed you,” Eddie whimpers through his tears, a choked, disbelieving, gasp-like laugh escaping his throat as Richie brings him in close again, pressing another lasting kiss against Eddie’s open lips before Eddie buries his forehead in Richie’s chest once more.

 

“I missed you too, junebug. So badly. You have no idea.”

 

Only he does.

 

Eddie’s fingers twist around Richie’s thin windbreaker. He’ll chastise him later, when their knees are tangled up under Eddie’s comforter and their hands are conjoined in near-sleep. Later is time for telling Richie to dress for the late winter. Now is the time for kissing him.

 

“207?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“My door number.”

 

Eddie can feel Richie’s neck move just slightly as Richie grins.

 

“I was never a good one for keeping secrets, was I?” he asks, but Eddie doesn’t mind. He can’t mind anything right now. He’s got him, really got him. He’s got him and he doesn’t want to let go.

 

“Out here knocking my neighbour’s things around like a drunk,” Eddie grumbles teasingly against Richie’s jacket, and Richie flicks him tenderly in the side. Eddie inhales, deeply, quietly, the scent of cigarettes and pine and men’s shampoo. Richie’s scent. The smell he missed so badly.

 

“I couldn’t help it. I was rushing.”

 

“I don’t really care anyways.”

 

“ _He_ might.”

 

“Fuck it, Rich,” Eddie says, honest and sudden, and he turns his head ever so slightly, reaching out and catching Richie in his grip, his smaller fingers almost entirely enveloped in Richie’s thin hand. Against his arm, blurring and spinning and forming final words, Eddie’s eyes dance across the physical detailing of Richie’s consciousness.

 

**HOME**

**FINALLY HOME**

Shutting his eyes, Eddie tucks his forehead into Richie’s neck, the taller boy’s arm looping around his hip. Home, home, home. No cyclones, no tapping of French red heels, no puppies or brick roads or wizards. No magic. Just home. He was home.

 

“You’re here,” Eddie says, a diluted whisper. “That’s all I needed.”


End file.
